


Dr. John H. Watson, Sexual Surrogate

by smurff



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, M/M, Sexual Tension, Therapy, Undercover Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, kind of, sexual surrogacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smurff/pseuds/smurff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sexual surrogate is a therapist who engages in intimate physical contact with clients who have sexual anxiety. </p><p>After several men who have visited a surrogate go missing, Sherlock goes undercover and makes an appointment to see Dr. John Watson, Sexual Surrogate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Dr. John H. Watson, Sexual Surrogate | 性辅导师Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5349956) by [yikshuontheroad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikshuontheroad/pseuds/yikshuontheroad)



> It is a real thing, mostly existing in the US, but it does exist in the UK as well. Professionals, often with Masters or PhDs in Psychology or Sexuality engage in intimate contact with clients who have various sexual difficulties or intimacy problems. Normally, they're older virgins, or people who have had sexual trauma. Lots of debate on how it differs from prostitution, but let’s ignore that for the love of Watsons.

Sherlock clenched his teeth in irritation and took a deep breath. He loathed dealing with prostitutes. 

“Couldn’t get it up the first time. Came back a second and said he’d gotten some help. Whatever it was, it worked.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the rent boy’s glitter-coated smirk. 

“Did he mention what sort of help he received?” he drawled.

“Some surrogate something-or-other. Don’t know what babies have to do with anything, but – ”

Sherlock snapped. “You idiot. Not a surrogate mother.” He’d had enough and finally had something to go on.

He stormed off, leaving the man in the alleyway. He would most likely have to pay the man off to stay in his good graces in case any more information was required but it was worth it to not remain in his suffocating presence a moment longer. 

A sexual surrogate. Of course. The five socially and sexually inept gay men who had turned up around the city in varying states of dismemberment finally had a possible link. 

A quick cab ride – must remember to get hands on Mycroft’s new credit card number – and internet search later, he had the name of the only male sexual surrogate in southern England. 

Dr. John Watson, Ph.D. 

Two days, four hours, and 37 minutes later, Sherlock found himself being ushered through a thick oak door by a receptionist who had clearly just resolved to adopt a middle-aged dog from the local animal rescue centre. 

The building had clearly been a house at one point, and was repurposed as a centre for counseling and therapy. The room he entered was tastefully decorated, and obviously meant to look more like a home than an office. A deep red rug covered most of the hardwood flooring, and soft leather sofas sat opposite each other, each possessing several burgundy throw pillows. On the sofa furthest from the door sat Dr. John Watson. 

He was a gentle looking man, about as non-threatening as a man could seem. Dirty blond hair softened into grey at the temples, and minute crows feet formed at the corners of his eyes as he welcomed Sherlock with a grin. Despite the demeanour, there were also permanent frown lines between his eyebrows. Nervous? Not about Sherlock, surely. This man had seen enough patients over his… ten… no, eleven years of practice that a new patient would not concern him. Tense? 

“Mr. Holmes? Welcome.”

Watson shuffled the papers in his lap and stood to put them in a folder on his desk. As he did so, the frown lines softened slightly. Tense. What had he been reading? Something about a former or current patient was bothering him.

“Dr. Watson. Thank you for seeing me.” Sherlock hovered near a sofa but waited until Watson had returned from his desk to sit.

“Please, call me John. May I call you Sherlock?” Watson – John – was settling in to the sofa across from Sherlock, looking for all the world as though he was in his sitting room.

“Of course.”

“Thanks. Now, could you tell me a bit about why you’re here?”

Sherlock blinked slowly and fell into character. It was one based loosely on himself, as he’d found his behaviour somewhat fit the profile of a man who might seek a sexual surrogate. Virginal, lacking in experience with intimacy, few prior relationships. Of course, the notable difference being that his lack of experience was by choice.

“I’ve never engaged in intercourse, or been part of a romantic relationship. I want to become more comfortable with intimacy.” Not exactly verbatim from the forum he’d researched earlier, but near enough.

“What are your expectations of these sessions?”

“I would like to become comfortable enough to experience a romantic and sexual relationship with another man.”

“What is your idea of a time frame for this therapy? I normally see clients daily for anywhere between one week and a couple months. Would you prefer something slower paced, not really pushing boundaries, or are you looking for a quicker fix?”

“A couple weeks should be fine. I’m not terribly slow moving.”

“Okay, I hope I can help you get there. The job of a surrogate is generally to do just that – to help the client become able to share himself with another person. We will start with proximity, and go along to touching when you’re feeling up to it. We’ll start very slow, and build at whatever pace you’re comfortable with. If you ever feel uncomfortable, just tell me and we’ll stop immediately. That being said, please do try to push your limits. How do you feel about coming to see me?”

“Impatient,” Sherlock growled. To his surprise, John grinned at this. 

“If you’d like to begin straight away, that’s acceptable.”

Sherlock’s stomach twisted strangely at the offer. He’d known what a surrogate did for his patients, but he’d figured there would be more discussion beforehand. More of an opportunity to observe. However, perhaps a change of plan would work in his favour. Earn the man’s sympathy, and trust as a genuine client.

“What… how do we start?” The stumbling start to his sentence was, to his frustration, not entirely deliberate. 

“If it’s okay with you, I’ll come sit beside you.”

Sherlock nodded, eyebrows meeting in a frown. “That’s it?”

“As I said,” John said as he lifted himself off his sofa and sat approximately 14 inches from Sherlock, “we start slow. I want to make sure you’re happy with every step.”

“We just sit here?” Sherlock huffed.

“If you’re comfortable with this, then I would propose we add a little contact. Would you mind closing your eyes?”

John’s voice was soft and convincing, and Sherlock barely rolled his eyes before closing them.

“I’m going to touch your hand, okay?” It was a question and Sherlock didn’t hear any movement until he nodded his head.

Suddenly, a light finger was tracing down the back of his hand, feeling along a tendon, all the way to his finger. The fingertip ran back up the length of his hand and more fingers joined the second down stroke. The fingers stroked back and forth along the thin skin, nails raking ever so gently up. The light hairs on his hand stood on end and parted for John’s fingers. Up, down, up, down, up, down. 

Sherlock’s brain danced between pleasure and irritation. The tingles felt objectively pleasant while the act itself was clearly absurd. Was this how one gained the trust of a supposed professional? Letting them scratch one’s hand while one’s eyes were closed?

“Is this okay?” John’s voice seemed closer than he’d anticipated, and he opened his eyes out of instinct. The man was closer by around three inches and Sherlock found himself recoiling the corresponding three inches. He corrected himself immediately but John had noticed. 

“Am I too close?” he asked, however, he didn’t move an inch in the opposite direction.

“No,” Sherlock said evenly, steadfastly holding himself still.

“I know I’m nearer to you than is normal. You’re allowed to feel surprised and even uncomfortable. That’s what we’re working on here.” John had never stopped stroking his hand, and lowered his palm slightly so that the length of his fingers, rather than just the tips, were now dragging along Sherlock’s skin.

“I know.” He closed his eyes again.

This was the longest consistent contact anybody had held with Sherlock in years. Aside, perhaps, from Lestrade yanking him bodily into the back of his car during one of his more violently degrading tirades. It was difficult to think with the constant gentle movement of the hand on his. He would have to gather as much visual data as possible and analyze it at a later time. Sherlock relaxed into the touch somewhat.

John’s other hand came to nudge under Sherlock’s, and he turned it. His hand now resting palm up in the doctor’s, the short fingers began to stroke the underside of his fingers, trailing occasionally along the palm. 

“How does this feel?” The voice was still closer than felt normal of an interaction, but then, this didn’t feel like an average interaction in any way.

“Nice. It feels good.”

“Good.” Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

The stroking carried on for uncounted minutes, progressing from gentle tickling to firmer stroking. Sherlock gave a start when the doctor slipped his hand into his own, and held it gently, as though in a tender handshake. John used his free hand to unbutton Sherlock’s cuff and slip his hand underneath the fabric, onto his wrist. Sherlock inhaled sharply and his eyes shot open. 

“It’s okay. I’ll stop now.” John was smiling gently and Sherlock relaxed. John withdrew his hands but didn’t move back on the sofa.

Perhaps there was something to this therapy. It registered as a bizarre amount of intimacy for something so simple and mundane.

“Would you like to touch my hand now?”

John rested his forearm on his leg, offering his hand to Sherlock. 

Sherlock stared for a moment before taking John’s hand in his. Not knowing what to do with it, but not wanting to obviously mimic John’s movements, he started gently pulling at the skin, the way he would a cadavers to check hydration levels. He looked at John, expecting a bemused expression, but found his eyes closed, and his face relaxed. Feeling a slight bit of freedom, Sherlock continued a mindless exploration of the doctor’s hands while putting his attention to the doctor’s attire. 

A small stain of milky tea on the trousers near the knee: nothing important, perhaps a slight tremor, or simple morning fatigue. Loose threads at the hem of the trouser legs: doesn’t spend apparently generous salary on new clothing.. Recently trimmed, clean nails: meticulous hygiene, although combined with spot of tea, not obsessively clean. 

A sigh from John drew Sherlock’s attention. His cursory examination of the proffered hand had morphed into a reasonable approximation of a massage that John was clearly enjoying. Sherlock felt a stab of panic shoot through him but carried on regardless.

“That feels really nice. How does it feel for you?” John asked, eyes opening slowly.

“Fine.” Sherlock averted his eyes from John’s under the pressure of his gaze. 

“Good. You’re doing very well. I think that’s all we’ll do for today. Would you like to talk about how that went?” John finally withdrew from Sherlock’s space, moving his body back on the sofa, though not returning to the one opposite. 

“I thought it was fine.”

“So you said. Was it good or bad? Or did you feel indifferent?”

“It was acceptable. I didn’t mind it.”

John’s face lit up. “I’m glad to hear it. That’s very good news for your therapy. Many people would find that first step to be difficult. If it’s okay with you, next session, we can progress to more sensual activities.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I would be amenable to that.” 

“Great! Well, I really enjoyed meeting you, Sherlock, and you can make your next appointment with Freda on your way out.” John stood up and held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. 

Sherlock took the hand he had been massaging and squeezed it gently. This had been a fairly strange encounter, and he was eager to get back to Baker Street for analysis.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

\--

Sherlock had been John’s last appointment for the day, so when the door closed behind him, John collapsed back onto the sofa. Holding himself together during that last session had been pretty difficult.

He dropped his head into his hands and took a deep breath. In the break before meeting with Sherlock, he’d turned on the radio and heard of the murder of a former client. The story had been floating around the news for the past several days but they’d just released his name and John had been floored. 

Thomas Reid. He’d been a nervous one, even by comparison. It had taken John nearly two weeks of daily sessions before the man had been comfortable touching John’s naked torso. They’d gotten through it in the end, though, and he’d ended their sessions several weeks ago. Still, it was inevitable that John would grow to like his clients.

He’d been searching through Thomas’ file for any sort of clue about people he felt threatened by when Sherlock had knocked.

Launching into his standard introduction had been easy but his mind had wandered slightly during the session. Sherlock had seemed like an odd candidate for sexual surrogacy. He didn’t appear to have any social anxiety or great discomfort with touching. He was, perhaps, short tempered and a little strange – he had very penetrating and thoughtful eyes – but he was very good looking and seemed agreeable. If inconsistent.

Quite the opposite of John’s regular clients, who seemed touch starved yet deeply uncomfortable with intimacy. He would need to start a file on Sherlock before packing up for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

Their second session began more comfortably than their first, with John sitting to Sherlock's immediate left.

“I would like to touch your face and neck. Would you like that?”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m quite sure that I wouldn’t, but you may proceed.”

John chuckled. “Thank you. If you’re very uncomfortable, tell me. But please do try to tolerate me for a few minutes, if possible.”

“Indeed.”

Their first session had only been the day before and Sherlock was quite appreciative of the frequency that seemed to be the norm in this branch of therapy. Seeing the man every day was significantly more useful to his case than they had only seen each other weekly. 

After analysis, nothing John had done the day before had tripped any wires in Sherlock’s head. The man came off as a competent therapist, if distracted. He was only too aware, though, of how well some people could hide aspects of their personalities. He would continue to observe the man, and if he concluded that there was nothing amiss, he may as well inform Lestrade of John’s link to the men, and leave the mind-numbing interrogation to him.

“I’ll be very gentle. I’m just going to start with your neck, now,” John’s calming voice said.

Once again sitting very close on the sofa, John reached to Sherlock’s face with both hands and gently cupped his jaw. He began by running his rough palms down either side of Sherlock’s neck, stopping in the dip just short of his collarbone, where his fingers drew soft patterns.

Sherlock held back a shudder at the tickling sensation until John moved back up his neck and onto his lower cheeks. The touches seemed to lack direction and motivation but felt purposeful nonetheless. John was confident touching a stranger, as he well should be in his profession. Sherlock, however, lacked the experience necessary to cope with such strange touches. He let his eyes slid shut, if for no other reason than to avoid John’s.

John’s hands slid from his jawbones, up past his ear and just past his temples, into his hair. As he slid past the temples, he increased the pressure slightly, and Sherlock felt a simmer of pleasure intrude on his brain. Hands played in his hair, tugging, pressing, circling firmly, before trailing back down, pressure being applied impeccably to pressure points while gently skimming and exploring the rest.

“John,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice steady. “Why are you only focused on manipulating my mandibular area?”

John’s hands paused in his repeated motion for a moment before resuming his sweeps. 

“I didn’t know you were a science man. What is it you do for a living?” John asked in his ear, reminding Sherlock of the man’s proximity. 

“I’m a violin tutor. However, I have the ability to read and do so in my spare time.”

Immediately after speaking, Sherlock clenched his jaw in regret. He was meant to be playing the part of an incompetent, and while the violin tutoring had been part of the plan, the knowledge of facial nerves and sarcasm had not.

Rather than pulling away offended, John laughed again.

“Well that’s good to hear. I’m not sure we could say the same of many people these days.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched and John’s hands continued. There was something very rhythmic about the way John’s hands moved over him, as with the day before, falling somewhere between soothing and arousing.

John had, at the very least, a cursory understanding of the nervous system. Did his training for the job require such knowledge? Something he’d learned in school? Or a hobby? Some serial killers had in-depth knowledge of biology. 

“So, you’re a violin tutor? How do you enjoy that?”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you still play, yourself? Outside of teaching, I mean.” John’s hands changed their course and sunk into his hair, thumbs stroking Sherlock’s forehead, back and forth.

“On occasion.” It was strange to have a conversation with someone while one’s eyes were closed, but at such close proximity, Sherlock preferred it to eye contact. Not to mention the alien feeling of hands stroking what suddenly felt like a private area.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Not as much as I used to. I find getting paid for something often takes away from it,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking at John. “Do you find the same?” He raised an eyebrow in a challenge.

John barked out a laugh and his lips fell into a smirk.

“It depends who I’m dealing with. At the moment, certainly not.”

Sherlock faltered and made an effort not to flush. He was unused to people reacting to him in this way. It was, he reminded himself, the man’s job to put the incompetent at ease, and he had probably been subject to all manner of things. Perhaps trying to get him on the back foot wasn’t the way to go about this.

Before he could employ a different tactic, John shifted almost imperceptibly closer towards his face and lifted his closest leg to rest partially on the sofa, partially on Sherlock. It turned his body more comfortably towards him, but it meant a lot more contact than there had been a moment ago. They were still maintaining eye contact and Sherlock was slightly thrown off. He could feel John’s breath on his chin as the man moved his hands down to cup his jaw.

The thumbs that had moments ago been sitting innocently on his forehead began, without warning, ever so gently skimming the edges of his lips. The touch seemed to leave tingles of electricity in its wake and Sherlock found himself inhaling loudly and closing his eyes once more.

“Nerves run very near the surface in your lips - lots of cutaneous receptors for me to stimulate. It feels good, doesn’t it?” John asked, voice soft.

Sherlock sighed in answer. He hadn’t expected his cover to involve such sensations. John was clearly good at his work.

He continued running his thumbs around the perimeter of his lips, on occasion increasing the pressure into a rub to keep the receptors expectant. Sherlock felt himself begin to breathe more heavily and tried to moderate it, but found the act more difficult than anticipated. 

“Sherlock,” John murmured, and shifted still closer. His leg now entirely on Sherlock’s lap, and one hand abandoning his lips to rest on the sofa back behind him. Sherlock felt encased in John’s warmth, as even the sides of their bodies came into contact. John’s face could not have been more than ten centimeters from his own.

“Have you ever been kissed?” His breath left a hot, damp feeling on Sherlock’s cheek, as John’s thumb pulled at his bottom lip.

The detective took a breath and let it out slowly. Too distracted to stay in character. The truth wouldn’t hurt his cause, though.

“Yes.”

“Who by?”

“Friend at university.” Sherlock’s eyes darted away from John’s to glance at his lips. They were plumper than an average man’s and slightly parted. While he was looking, John’s tongue poked out and licked his bottom lip, leaving a slight glisten.

“Did you like it?”

Back to John’s eyes, “No.”

“Why not?”

“It was wet. And I…” He stopped, unhappy with what he’d been about to admit.

“You what?”

“I didn’t know what to do.” He pulled back from John’s face, putting more distance between them, and turned his eyes towards the other sofa. He was uncomfortable with this line of conversation. He wasn’t actually here for therapy, and didn’t feel like dredging through his past with anyone, no less a potential murderer. 

John leaned back as well so there was a greater distance between them.

“That’s fine, Sherlock. Nobody knows what they’re doing at first.”

“I do.”

“I can tell. You’re very confident in most things, right? You seem very sure of yourself.” John’s lips curled ever so slightly into a grin. And just like that – the mood was back. John was good. 

“I am.”

“Do I have the honour of seeing you when you’re unsure? To know something you don’t know?” John was leaning back in and Sherlock found he was as well. The light teasing tone in his voice didn’t match the somewhat rude words, and Sherlock found he liked it. Being teased without being made to feel inferior.

“So it would seem.”

Their faces were just as close at they had been, and the hand John had rested came behind Sherlock’s neck and touched down lightly, running a path along the back of his neck, the hairs moving slightly as though in a breeze. Immediately, goose pimples appeared up and down his arms and his eyes fell half shut. 

“I promise, if you let me kiss you, I won’t make it wet,” John murmured, and Sherlock had to turn his eyes down to see his lips quirk upwards in a kind smile. 

“Hm,” was all Sherlock managed in reply.

“Do you want to kiss me?” John asked quietly, still running his fingers gently over the other man’s neck. When Sherlock stayed silent, John continued, “I want to kiss you.”

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded his consent almost indiscernibly. 

His internal monologue shut off entirely as John leant forward the remaining inches and gently touched their lips together. It set off the same tingling in his nerves, but much stronger. John’s lips felt just as plump as they looked, and he could feel him gently exhale through his nose, the air fanning out along his philtrum. They didn’t move for a moment, during which time Sherlock felt frozen. 

Finally, John parted his lips ever so slightly and took Sherlock’s bottom lip between them. A very light suction and release. Another. John tilted his head and placed a kiss full on. It felt odd, having someone’s face so near his own. His eyes were still open, even as his breathing quickened and his cheeks flushed.

Sherlock abruptly became aware that he wasn’t reciprocating – the problem he’d had with Victor – he didn’t know how to reciprocate even if he wanted to. He pulled back from John, unnerved. 

“What’s the matter?” John had followed him when he pulled away so they were still only just separated.

“I don’t know…” He couldn’t tear his eyes from John’s lips, one of which was being sucked into John’s mouth, very similarly to how his own had been just seconds before.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, you mean?” John placed a quick butterfly kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Yes.”

“That’s absolutely fine. You don’t have to do anything right now.” Kiss. “Just feel me kiss you.” Kiss. “Let yourself be open to it.” Kiss.

When Sherlock didn’t respond, John asked, “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

John smiled, “Good. I like kissing you.”

And so he kissed and kissed. Always close-mouthed, never pressuring Sherlock to respond, or pulling back. John’s hand carried on stroking his neck, sometimes venturing up to gently grip his hair before smoothing it down.

The tingling on his lips and neck faded somewhat, though the heat in his cheeks didn’t. His breathing was uneven, and he couldn’t seem to focus enough to normalize it. Sherlock could feel his cock intermittently becoming interested in the proceedings before getting distracted by the kissing again. Luckily, nothing of an embarrassing sort occurred and he was able to remain unadjusted.

Several minutes had passed by the time John withdrew. He didn’t let go of Sherlock, still petting his hair and neck, other hand cradling his cheek. His own cheeks were slightly flushed, though his lips were several shades darker still.

“So, what do you think? Better than at uni?” The question wasn’t cocky or hypothetical. John wanted to know.

Sherlock had to clear his throat before responding. “Yes. That was better.”

“Good.” John was smiling widely. “Not too wet?” He was back to the teasing tone of earlier and Sherlock found he had to fight his lips to remain neutral.

“Not too wet.”

“Do you think you’d be willing to carry on past this tomorrow? Or do you want to take a couple days to get used to this?” John’s thumb had returned to his lip and was caressing it back and forth, now an echo of his lips.

He hesitated. He needed to focus on the case and put that at the forefront of his mind during sessions. He’d gathered a frankly paltry amount of information from the man so far. Sherlock was torn on whether to attempt to deduce whether this man was involved in the murder, or carry on with his sessions to see whether the man would attempt something on him.

“I’ll decide tomorrow.”

“Sure! No rush whatsoever. Just tell me what you’re comfortable with and we’ll go from there.”

\--

As the door closed, John ran a hand through his hair and exhaled heavily. That had been an interesting second session. 

He found himself liking Sherlock’s company – his cynicism combined with his situational discomfort was intriguing – which meant he would have to work on detaching himself from the situation. Even after several years of training and subsequent practice, he was not immune to the effects of shared intimacy. Though what he’d told Sherlock was true: most of his clients showed enough anxiety and discomfort that it wasn’t a concern. They normally made it clear that they didn’t want to be there, and that had always helped John remain professional. It was rare that John would feel aroused while with one. 

Of course, it was a hazard of his job that clients would sometimes fancy themselves in love with him. After all, a lifetime without intimacy, followed by a generous, patient, caressing stranger would inevitably lead to the odd infatuation. It was his job to treat them the way a lover would, to introduce them to intimacy without a mask on. He had sensed several times, and been told outright several more, that men had fallen in love with him. Sherlock didn’t seem the type to take the first available option, but John would have to be careful to treat him as he would any client.

There was something about Sherlock, though. After today’s session, he could tell the man was indeed very different than his usual clients. Handsome, self-assured, practiced in banter, to be sure, with a fiery attitude. He had been telling the truth when he said he enjoyed kissing him. He dared the universe to find a person who wouldn’t. Sherlock may not have been conventionally good-looking but his cheekbones would have been better suited to a Greek statue, and his eyes seemed to blaze omnisciently. Not to mention the body he appeared to be hiding under those well-fitting suits.

John sighed once more and sat at his desk to pull out Sherlock’s folder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that I changed the total number of chapters from 5 to 7 - it's drawing itself out a little longer than I expected!

Sherlock had just placed his hand on the door to the clinic when his mobile started vibrating in his pocket. Lestrade or Mycroft. Most likely Lestrade as it was after 2pm and Mycroft would be in meetings. 

He stepped back onto the street and swiped his screen.

“What?”

“Hello to you, too,” came Lestrade’s gruff voice from the other end. “Was wondering if you’ve got anything on the case at all.”

“Nothing yet.” He stared at the building in front of him, oddly eager to enter.

“Nothing? It’s been four days. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m working on it. Telling you now would involve you and you would just ruin it.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade's voice held a warning, “If you’ve forgotten, this is my case. Tell me what you’re doing, at least. I need to know if you’re putting yourself in a dangerous position.”

“It’s nothing that will get me killed.” Sherlock paused thoughtfully. “Most likely,” he amended. 

“Sherlock, I swear to god, you tell me – ” Sherlock pulled the phone from his ear and hung up, then held the power button until the damn thing switched off entirely. He felt he could comfortably go awhile without Lestrade ringing him.

Mobile pocketed, he strode up to the building and entered it. He didn’t sit in the available waiting chairs, but stood against the far wall and stared at Freda. She ignored him entirely, not even a glance, which was unsurprising, given the way she'd reacted to his advice the day before. Apparently she was sensitive when it came to her weight. Though, she really shouldn’t be eating that way if it was a concern.

Minutes ticked by, Sherlock remaining unacknowledged. 

The telephone on her desk buzzed once and she picked it up immediately. 

“Yes? … Oh no, he’s here… No. He’s all yours. Good luck with that.” She slammed the phone down and carried right on ignoring him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He stepped forward, towards John’s closed door, and stopped. Freda didn’t budge. He took another step with no reaction. He was taking his third when John’s door opened and the dirty blond head poked out.

“Sherlock! Hi!” His mouth was grinning but his eyebrows formed a frown. “Come in, come in.” He ushered him inside and stepped back out to glance at Freda, before following Sherlock through and closing the door behind them.

“What did you do to Freda? She loves everybody.”

“Ah. Well clearly that is not longer the case. In my defense, women are very unpredictable. They respond erratically to the most mundane comments.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath.

“I…” John started and stopped, pressing his lips together to hide a grin. “I think I’m starting to see what might have gone wrong. What exactly did you say to her?”

“My exact words were, ‘You’ll need to be refitted for the bridesmaids dress if you carry on eating pies for lunch. Furthermore, the groomsman will try to engage her sister rather than you, very much upsetting your plans.’ She did not take kindly to it, but it was only the truth.”

John’s hands were covering his face in second-hand embarrassment, and he spoke as though pained.

“Oh, Sherlock. That’s not good.”

“Is it not?”

“A bit not good, yeah.”

“Why not?” Sherlock understood that people reacted unfavourably to a lot of things he said, and even understood why in most instances, but body weight was not one of them. To him, it seemed comparable to commenting on hair length.

“People are sensitive about their weight. A lot of them think it’s a reflection of… I don’t know, their self-control or… maybe hygiene, I suppose. And anyway, if she’s sharing details about her life, it’s not your place to criticize.”

“She wasn’t sharing, I deduced it. It was as plain as anything, from the bruises and callouses on her knuckles. Couple that with her desktop background, and there’s no challenge.”

John looked stumped. “What on earth are you talking about? What do you mean, you deduced it? From her knuckles and a photo?”

“The callouses are placed such that it is obvious she has been doing excessive upper body exercise – no need to examine the rest of her, an out of shape woman doing upper body work is surely targeting multiple areas in an attempt to get fit – and the placement of the bruises indicate that she is inexperienced, and tends to adjust her hold improperly, and occasionally injure herself. The fact that she was eating her second pie in as many days indicates that, although she is sometimes committed to her goal, she is finding full-time commitment difficult and it is therefore likely motivated by vanity, rather than intrinsic motivations. She will likely drop the routine following the wedding. The wedding, which is obvious from the visible ring on the finger of the woman she is with in her desktop photo. The groom has his arm around her. The groomsman, the fourth in the photo with an arm around your receptionist. Not a couple, but she is hopeful.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out, then walked past a stunned John to sit on the sofa.

Damn. He hadn’t meant for that to happen. Sometimes deductions just… popped out. There was a chance this could compromise his cover.

“That was…” John paused. “That was incredible.” He still hadn’t moved from the middle of the room, though he’d turned to regard Sherlock, captivated. “Can you do that with everybody?”

“Mostly. Although I prefer not to. I find it often leads to… disagreeable circumstances.”

The therapist exhaled in amusement, “Like being left sitting in a waiting room?”

Sherlock smiled. “Precisely.”

“Right,” John said, seeming to slip on his professional veneer. “Perhaps I’ll wait to get myself deduced, then. Not sure I want to know what’s lurking inside my brain quite yet.” He smiled widely but it was probably less confident than he’d have liked. “Shall we get down to business?”

“Please.”

“Great, well, today, I want us to take turns exploring each other’s bodies. Fully clothed, might I specify,” he added, seeing Sherlock’s eyes open wide. “We’ll each lie down and let the other touch. It’s just meant to get us comfortable with touching every part of each other’s bodies. We’re not necessarily trying to arouse each other, but let’s not be embarrassed if that happens. It’s a pretty inevitable reaction to having hands all over you.” John grinned cheekily.

“I think I’ll be fine, thanks,” Sherlock huffed. He knew he could handle some light petting. He might even be able to block it out entirely.

“Great. Would you like to go first, or shall I?”

“You first,” Sherlock said.

Alright, if you want to take off your suit jacket and lay down on the sofa…” He trailed off and for once, Sherlock did as he was told. He settled into the sofa, just long enough to contain his limbs without folding.

John settled on his knees on the floor next to the sofa and gently, barely touching, ran his flat fingers and palms up the side of Sherlock’s stomach, across his bellybutton, and back. Sherlock’s abdominal muscles tightened at the tickle and he shifted back into the sofa, but John didn’t pause. Again, his motions were rhythmic, as one hand slid higher onto his stomach and the other caressed the same area as before.

Back and forth, until Sherlock almost felt as though he was being rocked to sleep. As John’s right hand explored his sternum, his left began tracing light circles around his bellybutton, and Sherlock’s stomach felt like liquid fire, before dropping into the area of his cock. He felt it twitch and grabbed at John’s hand before he could think better of it. 

John immediately removed both his hands from Sherlock’s body and sat back on his heels, giving him some space. 

“Everything okay?” His tone was light but his question, serious.

He exhaled audibly and attempted to relax his body into the cushions. Now that he didn’t have hands on him, his cock had relaxed somewhat but he felt as though he was on a knife’s edge. The touching of his body felt, somehow, even more intimate than the kissing. 

“Sherlock? Tell me how you feel.” John hadn’t so much as twitched, and Sherlock was vaguely aware that he had made his body as small as possible. Non-threatening, submissive. Something he himself had done when trying to make a witness feel safe.

Even though he understood the manipulation, he could feel his muscles loosening and his brain clearing. 

“It’s fine.”

“I’m glad. But please do tell me how you feel. You didn’t stop me for no reason. Was it overwhelming? Did you feel uncomfortable?”

“No, it was acceptable. Just surprising.”

“What was surprising?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to answer that. The truth would be unbearably uncomfortable and he had no lie readily available. Perhaps, if he sidestepped the question…

“Nobody has touched me that way.” He made eye contact with John for the first time since he’d begun touching him.

“Okay, and what did it make you feel?” John asked, apparently determined to get his answer from Sherlock.

“… Interested.” He stared back, refusing to redden.

“Alright, that’s a relief. As long as you’re not panicking or very uncomfortable, we can work on this. Do you want to take a moment? Or should I slow down?”

“No, carry on.” Sherlock turned his eyes back to look at the ceiling, dismissing the conversation.

John chuckled and slid his hands back into place.

“You jump into things with both feet, don’t you? I can respect that. That’s a quality I don’t often see in my clients.”

“No, I would imagine not,” Sherlock scoffed, “if you’re primarily dealing with adult virgins.”

“Hmm,” John agreed, “Do you mind, then, if I ask what your situation is? Did that kiss at uni really put you off so much?” His hands slid up to Sherlock’s pectoral muscles and skimmed along them, then slid back to his abdominals. 

“I… Haven’t focused on this area. And now it feels late to start learning.”

The hands had slowed in their movements and were now partially cupping his pectorals. His thumbs brushed back and forth over the skin, and his left caught briefly over a nipple, which sent a twinge to Sherlock’s groin. 

He controlled himself enough that there was a mere pause in his breath in reaction, but John noticed. He brushed over it again, and this time, it hardened under his finger. Sherlock felt as though there was a direct line from his nipple to his cock, as one tug to the nipple elicited an answering twitch.

"It's never too late to start learning."

John ran one hand down the length of Sherlock’s torso, keeping the other by his nipple, and this time, it felt as though his nerves were standing at attention, and even his ribs felt like an erogenous zone. His penis was becoming notably more interested and there was no way of hiding it. Sherlock gritted his teeth and accepted the shame.

One more pass over his protruding nipple and John moved his hand firmly down Sherlock’s pelvis, only just bypassing his now hard cock, which was desperate for the touch. His hand travelled back to his stomach before retreating back down, pressing once again past his tented trousers, and onto the other leg. Sherlock gasped and his thighs twitched reflexively in an effort not to trust skyward.

John jumped as though shocked and looked up at his face before his eyes darted down to the obvious erection pressing against the zip of his trousers. He snatched his hands away from his thighs and placed them on his own. His face was pink and his breathing ever so slightly shallower than normal.

“Sorry, I – ” he cleared his throat, “As I said, arousal is nothing to worry about, it’s perfectly natural in this scenario.”

His hands became much more clinical in the minutes after that, skimming him through his clothes efficiently and without pausing. Up his chest, along his shoulders, down his arms. Methodical, disinterested, thorough. The touch was suddenly much less arousing, much less interesting. His erection subsided, and he barely even noticed when hands wandered systematically over his genitals several minutes on. Down his legs, circling his ankles.

“Okay,” John said, with the relief of a person reaching the front of a long queue, “Let’s give you a turn.”

Sherlock sat up and they exchanged places. Before kneeling on the floor, Sherlock fetched a cushion for his knees. He had no intentions of touching this suit to the floor.

“Ready? I just want you to do what you feel comfortable with. Try to learn my body. Don’t be shy about touching me anywhere. You can focus anywhere you like, or nowhere at all. Just let your interests guide you, okay? If you decide you want to undress me for a better look, all the better, but don’t feel you have to. At your own pace, yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, knowing he wouldn’t undress the other man. That would perhaps be too much. Although, it occurred to him that perhaps having John naked would provide further indications of whether he was a viable suspect. Something worth considering.

He didn’t follow John’s lead in his method of exploration. He started on John’s hands, careful to appear as though he was exploring, while actually cataloguing and deducing. He slid his fingers between John’s, feeling for callouses and finding very few. Twisting his wrist and finger joints several times in each direction led him to believe that there was no hint of arthritis. 

A semblance of an arm massage told him that, while John’s right forearm was decently muscled - more so than an average British male of his age – his left forearm was significantly smaller. The trend was not altogether unusual in younger males due to frequent masturbation, but it was unusual in a man of John’s age.

He moved his hands up along John’s biceps and just onto his shoulders, before John opened his eyes, effectively stopping Sherlock’s hands in their tracks.

“Sorry, I forgot to mention, I’d prefer if you would avoid my shoulders. Everything else is equal opportunity, though,” he said, smirking almost flirtatiously.

Sherlock’s brain whirled into motion. Just moments ago, John had given him carte blanche to touch him, but then he’d remembered something. Something he didn’t want Sherlock to know about.

His hands moved automatically over John’s firm pectoral muscles, catching on already firm nipples through his button down, and felt the rectus abdominis flex under his hands on their way down, defined and covered by only a thin layer of fat. Hands back up along the obliques, then down until they rested just above the protruding pelvic bone at his hips. Strong core muscles indicated that John was fit. Most likely regularly attended a gym. Why, then, was his forearm underdeveloped?

He happened a glance at John’s face and his breath caught in his throat. For all Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention to his touching, John clearly had. There were pink spots high on his cheeks, and his bottom lip was wet where he must have licked it. He was taking deep breaths and appeared lost behind his eyelids.

Sherlock’s stomach flipped and his head felt suddenly light. He’d never seen a person react so favourably in his presence. –Because- of his presence.

Cautiously, he tightened his grip on the man’s hips and squeezed. His hands roamed much more deliberately now, fascinated at the effect he was having on John. Out of curiosity, he checked John’s trousers for signs of arousal and was not disappointed. Perhaps just as enthusiastically as his had been, John’s cock pressed a hard line against the front of his smart black trousers. He felt his own responding and knew it was time to leave. He could hardy suffer two erections in the space of twenty minutes.

“John…” His voice came out without his permission, and much lower than he could recall having heard it. 

John inhaled loudly and opened his eyes to look directly at him.

“Yes?”

“I think… I think I’m finished for today.”

The disappointment in John’s eyes was evident to the detective.

“Alright. Are you feeling okay?” John took a deep breath and sat up on the sofa, swinging his legs over to the floor.

“Yes, that was interesting. Just enough for today.” He stood up as gracefully as he could and replaced the cushion on the couch. 

As always, John spent an extra minute ensuring that Sherlock was comfortable with everything before seeing him off, and assuring him that they would see each other following the weekend.

Sherlock closed the door to the clinic with a partial erection and one thought circling in his head. He needed to see that shoulder.

\--

Fuck.

John crumpled his brow in frustration and knocked his forehead on the solid wood door. 

What the fuck was the matter with him? Could he not control himself around a client? He was behaving like a hormonal teenager.

It was not entirely unexpected or unreasonable that he would get an erection from being touched up, although it never happened with his other clients until things had progressed further, but an erection from simply touching a client was entirely new. He’d lost himself while he was touching Sherlock and found himself with a hard on that had taken all his concentration to abate before he laid down – and been quick to return upon laying down. He’d completely forgotten that Sherlock was a client, and had let his hands wander past where they should’ve. 

The idea of surrogacy was to introduce a person to sex in a safe environment, and he’d nearly taken that away from Sherlock. A trusting client, who was paying him for that security, nonetheless.

He looked down at his persistent erection and sighed. After a brief debate between masturbation and thoughts of England, he unzipped his trousers and pulled out his hard cock. It didn’t take more than a minute of quick jerks before his legs weakened and he came into a cupped hand. He stared at it, embarrassed and anxious about what had just occurred.

“Get your shit together, Watson,” he mumbled to himself and slumped his way over to his desk. He would need to monitor himself very closely next session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought - I love reading comments!


	4. Chapter 4

He arrived twenty minutes early on Monday. He hadn’t seen John at all over the weekend as the office was closed and Sherlock found, against all odds, he had actually begun to look forward to these sessions. John was not an imbecile and he seemed to genuinely enjoy Sherlock’s company, which made for more pleasant interactions than he was used to. The most pleasant of his current acquaintances being Lestrade, who still yelled more than he spoke around Sherlock. 

Granted, he was paying John handsomely to be friendly, but he hadn’t noticed even one aborted eye roll or clenched jaw.

Sherlock’s lips turned upwards as he stepped into the building, and greeted Freda with an enthusiastic ‘Hello!’

The look of shock and disgust on her face heartened him and he sat in a chair directly across from John’s door to wait.

Several moments later, John’s door opened and he went to stand up, before realizing that it wasn’t John who was coming through. 

A man, perhaps in his mid-forties, with a fair-sized belly and very little hair on his head had opened the door and was turning to look at John. 

“Bye, then,” he said, and turned towards the waiting room.

To Sherlock's trained eye, he had the look of a debauched man – his shirt was messily tucked, as though done in a nervous hurry, and his lips were swollen. When he noticed Sherlock sitting in the waiting room near John’s door, his face turned a violent red.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” John’s voice came from inside the room.

The man had turned back to where John presumably stood. “Uh…” 

Quick footsteps, then the therapist appeared in front of his door, putting a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Dennis? Is everything alri – ” He cut off when he saw Sherlock. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He went in closer to ‘Dennis’ and quietly said, “I’ll see you later, alright? Go on.”

The man shot out of the office, very obviously embarrassed. leaving an uncomfortable John, a disoriented Sherlock, and a delighted Freda. 

“Sherlock, hi. Give me a few minutes to get everything sorted out, and I’ll be right with you.” He gave a pinched smile and retreated to his office.

Sherlock felt very much on the back foot, considering he was on a case. He’d never felt it necessary to consider his feelings concerning John sleeping with all sorts of different men. After all, they were both only doing their jobs in these sessions. And yet, something in his stomach hurt at the thought of John kissing ‘Dennis’ the way he had kissed Sherlock. 

With the door closed, Sherlock couldn’t hear anything. He didn’t know what ‘sorting everything out’ consisted of after a sexual surrogacy session, but he was quite sure he didn’t want to dwell on it. Freda, meanwhile, was smirking at him as though she was the one reaching through his skin and gripping his stomach tightly in a fist.

Around ten minutes later, John re-emerged from his office and beckoned him in. His skin was pink and the very back of his hair was damp. He'd showered, at least.

“Again, I’m really sorry about that,” he started as they sat across from one another. “I didn’t know you would be so early. Normally, there’s a half hour between appointments but I must have lost track of time.”

With Dennis.

At Sherlock’s silence, John continued, “Does it bother you to see him?”

“Why would it bother me?” he asked stoically.

“I’ve had clients demonstrate jealousy over the fact that I see other people. And even they have hardly ever actually run in to another client. Many people have trouble sharing a sexual partner, even if it is because I’m a therapist.” John’s soothing, non-judgmental voice was back. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “You don’t have a partner,” he deduced aloud.

“I…” John stumbled over his words, “What? How do you know that?”

“Your reaction to my seeing another client. You’ve had to explain yourself to someone a number of times. But your nerves suggest you haven’t for a while. Your partner left you because of your career choice?” It wasn’t perfect deduction but the look on John’s face had guided him to the conclusion.

John stared at him, stunned. “You really can deduce people, can’t you? Yes, I had a partner who didn’t like my job, so left.”

“When did he leave?”

John didn’t answer straight away. He took a moment to breathe, then rubbed his forehead and answered, “Just over a year ago, now.”

Longer than Sherlock had guessed. A long time for anybody to be without companionship.

“And nobody since then?” he asked.

“Well,” John huffed in not-quite amusement, “After a day’s work here, I hardly feel like going out on the pull.” 

“You haven’t slept with anybody who wasn’t a client?” Now that Sherlock had fallen on the topic of John’s sex life, he couldn’t believe how curious he was. “Do you find that satiates you?”

“Sherlock,” John said, voice almost irate; a quick switch in attitude, “This isn’t what we’re here to work through. Shall we get onto you?”

“I’d just like to make sure that my therapist doesn’t need one himself,” Sherlock said, eyebrow raised.

John was quick to come back, “As far as I’m concerned, we could all use a therapist of some sort. I promise that I’m perfectly qualified as a sexual surrogate, though.”

“What exactly are your qualifications?” Sherlock had never been near enough John’s desk to read the degrees hanging on the wall.

“Ah,” John said, glancing at the degrees. “Well, I got a medical degree from Bart’s but then I joined the army for several years. When I came back, I decided medicine wasn’t something I wanted to pursue, so I got a Ph.D. in clinical psychology from King’s. “

An alarm bell sounded in Sherlock’s mind at the mention of the army. Veterans were much more likely to engage in violence, particularly domestic violence, and the combined risk of PTSD… However, the fact that he was a doctor was confounding. It explained John’s previously suspicious knowledge of the human body, but did mean that he would be more able to cause it harm if he so desired. Although the butchering of the five men didn't seem to be methodically done.

“But anyway,” John interrupted his train of thought, “Jumping right ahead to our actual reason for being here…” he trailed off, and gave Sherlock and pointed look.

“Right, yes, go ahead.” Sherlock spread his arms out invitingly.

John laughed. “Okay, today’s mission is to get comfortable taking our clothes off in front of each other. How far we go is up to you. I’d also like to touch you, so remember what I said about telling me to stop whenever you need to.” His face was so earnest that Sherlock felt thoughts of Dennis start to disappear. 

“Are we taking all our clothes off?” Sherlock didn’t know how to feel about that – he was strangely keen to see underneath John’s clothes, but found he didn’t want to reveal himself to John. Odd, considering how many times people had seen him in various states of undress: Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, most of the Yard, come to that, after an incident with a contaminated crime scene. And yet he found himself nervous of John’s reaction to him. Absurd. Not only was the man paid to keep a straight face, but why should he care about a therapist’s view of his body?

But there it was.

“I want us to try to get down to pants, but… you know my speech by now, right?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and attempted a grin. “I do.”

“Good,” John smiled and moved to Sherlock’s side more quickly than Sherlock knew how to handle. He put a hand on his thigh, just above the knee, and leaned in close.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he spoke directly into Sherlock’s ear. His hot breath moved over his ear and down his neck.

The detective felt his hair stand on end and his nipples tighten. He clenched his teeth as he felt increased blood flow around his genitals. Was this really all it took to arouse the genius?

Sherlock decided it was well past time he took initiative, and turned his head to kiss John full on the mouth.

The moment they made contact, he heard John inhale sharply through his nose, and felt him recoil in surprise ever so briefly before pushing back towards him and leaning into the kiss.

It wasn’t nearly as gentle as their previous experience with kissing had been. The pecks from the second session didn’t compare to this heat. Sherlock’s hands ached to touch the other man but they hung awkwardly by his sides, unsure of what to do. Luckily, John’s were steadier and he gripped the back of Sherlock’s head, hard.

John shifted his grip on Sherlock’s neck in an attempt to turn his head, and he felt the hand jolt, then lift off his neck. He broke away from John to look at him and saw slight pain on his face as he withdrew his hand to massage it with his other.

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” John said, and leaned back in. 

He wasn’t about to complain about the short interruption but when their lips met once again, it was gentler, more disciplined. More professional.

Still enjoyable, certainly. Perhaps not as arousing, though Sherlock was willing to withhold judgment as John was not in the habit of letting him down.

Letting him down? What was he looking for, exactly?

John’s hand snuck down to the waistband of his trousers and slowly pulled a corner of his shirt free. The other corners followed and soon, John’s fingers crept underneath the shirt to rest of his flat stomach. Thumbs caressed his hipbones and his fingers splayed out, moving ever so slightly in a stroking motion.

This was shockingly different from being touched over his clothes, as they had done they previous week, and as he was used to from others in his life. This was flesh on flesh, and he could immediately feel the heat transfer between them. He considered that he could feel every little ridge of John’s fingertips as they moved along him, although he knew that was irrational. 

The hands glided up, lifting his shirt as they went. The combination of fabric and light touch raised goose pimples and he felt electric jolts pass through his nipples. John ran his hands up his rib cage, then down along his abdomen, before coming out from under his shirt, and picking at the top button.

He broke the kiss, but remained millimeters from Sherlock’s lips. 

“Do you want to unbutton my shirt?”

“Uh,” he hesitated, hating himself for it. “Yes, alright.” He didn’t move.

John waited several moments, still kissing every few seconds, before taking Sherlock’s hands in his and guiding them up to his buttoned shirt.

“Go on, then,” he said.

One by one, Sherlock popped the buttons through the holes, revealing inch after inch of golden skin. A slight bit of chest hair was revealed along his sternum, but disappeared, only to reappear below John’s bellybutton. The entire length of his torso was revealed in a single small strip down the middle. 

“Here,” John said, and took Sherlock’s hands once more, bringing them to his bare skin. At first, Sherlock didn’t move of his own accord, he just let John guide his hands around his torso. He could feel solid abdominal muscles under a shallow layer of fat, and his pectoral muscles were similarly strong. Their joint hands ran over John’s right nipple and the man tensed, flexing his core. The muscles suddenly stood out in sharp relief, and Sherlock found he couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to.

His thoughts turned to John’s shoulder, however, and he was torn between his mind’s need to discover whatever lay behind that thin layer of cotton and himself, and his body’s apparent need to continue staring and groping uselessly at a man’s stomach.

“Could you…?” he said, gesturing at the shoulders of the shirt. 

Luckily, John understood his vague gestures and smiled. He flipped the material over his shoulders and let the shirt float off of him. 

Sherlock’s eyes were immediately drawn to John’s shoulder, where a mangled scar deformed the flesh. A starburst pattern about the size of a child’s fist both raised and sunk the skin, and Sherlock was mesmerized. It was quite clearly a bullet wound, which meant John had failed to mention the fact that he had been invalided out of the army; he hadn’t chosen to leave. 

Another string of deductions hit him, almost causing him to give himself away. This was John’s right shoulder, same as the hand in which he had just experienced a spasm. The hand clearly lacked strength due to the injury, and the healing on the injury, as well as Sherlock's earlier estimate of eleven years in this profession, suggested that it had been around a decade ago. For a tremor and weakness to persist this long, it was serious and possibly permanent. 

John could not even grasp a partner’s head.

There was no way he could have strangled the murder victims.

“I know it’s quite ugly. We can’t all be perfect,” John said with a small smile, noticing his obvious staring.

Sherlock failed to react, in a daze as he was. What was to be done now? He would no longer need to work undercover, if John wasn’t the murderer. He could announce himself in his capacity as consulting detective and question the therapist. Treat him as he would any other lead. 

But then he imagined this being the last he saw of John’s kind eyes and smile. There was no chance that this man would be so kind to him, were he not obligated to be. Meeting Dennis had been a sharp reminder that he was paying for these services, it wasn't a developing relationship, not a genuine attraction. Something in Sherlock’s gut twinged at the thought of John treating him the way every other person did.

Perhaps he could make this his last session and tip Lestrade off about Dr. Watson. An actual copper to, for once, perform his duty and question a lead. Yes, that could work. At least he wouldn’t have to suffer John’s disdain for him when he was no longer being paid.

“Can I take off your shirt?” 

Sherlock cracked his eyes open and looked up into John’s eyes, empty of judgment, then cleared his throat and nodded.

The blonde’s lip widened in a grin and he recommenced the distraction that was kissing, while his fingers popped the top button loose. After every freed button, John would reward him with a harder kiss, light kisses in between. Sherlock’s head swam with confusion and indecision. He shouldn’t still be doing this if there was no need. In addition, now that he knew John was innocent, he felt an unexpected sense of shame that he was misleading him. The, admittedly small, altruistic portion of Sherlock’s brain suggested to him that he should come clean if, for no other reason, than because John deserved to know.

The man carried on, oblivious, with his work on the buttons and in no time at all, Sherlock found himself with nothing left to do but shrug off his shirt, and let it fall around him to the couch.

“God,” John said, eyes panning down Sherlock’s chest, “You really are beautiful, aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s cheeks heated and his heart felt as though it was in his throat, as John leaned back in to kiss him. Why the unsolicited compliments? Were they designed to boost his self-esteem?

Things grew heated in very short order, and suddenly, Sherlock was aware of his hands coming up to grip John’s bare shoulders. He could feel the edge of the scar under one palm, but his other hand held strong muscle, tense underneath his hand.

Their lips came together over and over again, until John’s mouth opened slightly under his, and his tongue slipped out to graze over Sherlock’s bottom lip. He gasped and parted his own mouth, only to feel John’s tongue slide in, brushing against both lips on the way. His cock reacted very favourably, twitching and filling with blood at the feeling of wetness against his lips. It was nothing to the sensation of John’s tongue touching his own, however. 

He felt it almost as though it were a physical tug, his lower stomach and groin lurching as their tongues slid slickly together. He couldn’t hold back a moan from the back of his throat.

It was a strange sensation, one he’d not felt since university, although this was certainly much better than that experience. 

John shifted on the sofa, and raised himself up to one knee, his other foot on the floor. He was now high enough that Sherlock had to tilt his head back to maintain the kiss, and he grabbed John around his midsection to steady him, drawing him still closer.

They kissed, heads turning this way and that, hands grabbing bits of flesh and muscle.

“Would you,” kiss, hard swallow, “would you mind if I straddle you?” John asked, out of breath and stealing kisses immediately after his question, as though he forgot he was waiting for an answer.

“No,” Sherlock breathed between open-mouthed meetings. 

The man wasted no time in resting his other knee on the couch, effectively trapping Sherlock underneath his thighs. A comfortable weight settled on his upper thighs as John sat back and ran his hands along Sherlock’s pectorals, down his abdominals, and back up, along his shoulders and biceps. The hands continued to trace a path that left Sherlock feeling warm and altogether restless.

Sherlock’s cock evidently felt that the heat resting near it was nothing but encouragement, and made it’s presence all the more obvious. It was becoming uncomfortable but the activity was novel and interesting enough that Sherlock didn’t want to stop just for a discomfort. 

Just as he was thinking this, the kisses calmed and slowed. 

He opened his eyes and saw John smiling at him.

“You should touch me. Explore my body. That’s what I’m here for, after all,” he said, his expression a mix of amusement and daring. Hardly something Sherlock could resist.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. No boundaries today, not if you don’t want them.” As if to emphasize his point, he shifted forward in Sherlock’s lap and just managed to rub against his trouser-covered erection before returning to his position.

When Sherlock simply stared at him, John took his hands once more in his own.

“Let’s start easy, shall we?” he said, and placed Sherlock’s hands on his bare torso. “Same as yesterday, just one layer down.”

They resumed kissing and Sherlock felt his hands wandering without his express permission. They contoured muscles and sunk into the slight pudginess of his stomach. It must have felt pleasing, because John’s breathing picked up around his lips, and his hands came back up to cup Sherlock’s neck. Surprisingly, Sherlock found he was also enjoying the sensation of touching the bare skin. It was warm and smooth, and hard. It was captivating, such new information that he'd never felt he needed before. 

He was unable to tell whether John’s responsiveness was put on to help his clients understand what he enjoyed, or whether it was instinctive, but the man would hum or gasp every time Sherlock brushed against a sensitive area, even arching when he skimmed his rib cage.

When they’d been at it several minutes, John broke away again, this time, cheeks pink and eyes marginally hooded.

“Do you feel comfortable taking off your trousers? Or with me taking off mine?”

Sherlock vacillated between his options. He was sporting a rock hard erection that he was positive he would be uncomfortable revealing, even through pants, to the therapist. Did he want John to remove his own trousers? He had to admit a certain amount of curiosity. That would be a step beyond any he’d taken with a man. Perhaps it could be of use in further cases.

“Take yours off,” he said, looking John in the eye. The other man grinned slowly and climbed off Sherlock.

He maintained eye contact while he unbuttoned his trousers and slid down the zip. As he did, his erection pushed out through the gap, within his black boxer briefs. He dropped the trousers to the floor and returned to his previous position atop Sherlock.

Sherlock was baffled by what to do next, where to look, whether he could touch, whether he wanted to.

John cupped his cheeks to bring his face back to level, and placed one kiss on his mouth before saying, “You’re allowed to touch me wherever and however you want. Encouraged, even.”

Sherlock placed his hands on his torso, to the millimeter, where John had instructed him to before, and stroked. John kissed him a couple times, once with tongue, before putting his hands over Sherlock’s and gently directing them back, back, until they were resting on his gluteus maximus. 

Without thinking, Sherlock squeezed to test muscle density. In response, John let out a surprised hum of pleasure. He looked John in the eye and squeezed again, this time curious about the physical response. John’s nostrils flared and his lips parted slightly.

Oh.

He, of course, knew about sexual response, but he’d never so obviously triggered it in another person before. Not deliberately.

He tilted forward to kiss John as he spread his buttocks apart with both hands. This elicited a moan and shifted hips.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John panted against his mouth. He glanced down at himself, prompting Sherlock to do the same. He saw John’s erection standing straight up underneath his pants, a decent size, though Sherlock hadn’t cared enough to research the average. At the very top of it, staining his pants, was a sizeable wet spot.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he inhaled deeply. He could practically feel his pupils dilating, as his brain urged his senses to gather as much information as possible about this enthralling subject. 

He swallowed in response to his increased saliva production, and gripped firmly at John’s buttocks.

John's hips stuttered towards his own, brushing once more over the cloth-covered erection. Not a second later, the man pulled back from Sherlock and shuffled back on his lap. They breathed heavily, staring at each other. A moment seemed to pass between them and John kept his body at a distance but leaned his face in for a few calmer kisses.

“You know,” John spoke unexpectedly, “I think we’ve about covered it for today.”

Sherlock loosened his grip in surprise and John sat back for a moment before he stood up. 

His erection jutted out obscenely in front of him, but he seemed to feel no self-consciousness. He retrieved his trousers from the pile on the floor and pulled them on, tucking his erection inside with a look of what seemed to be great discomfort.

His therapist smile was back.

“You know, you’re doing very well.”

Sherlock laid back on the sofa, still taken aback. He felt as though the session had been cut short and he hadn’t… Hadn’t what? 

John tossed him his shirt, which Sherlock tugged on and buttoned, as John redressed himself.

“Do you feel okay about what we’ve been doing so far?” John asked, still standing between the sofas. Sherlock stood as well, wincing as his erection pressed along his zip.

“Yes. It’s strange but it’s… alright,” he answered.

“Right, that’s great. I'm wondering, how would you feel about delving into more intimate contact tomorrow? You’re really moving along well.”

“Fine. That’s fine.” To be frank, Sherlock would have happily carried on to that minutes before, if he hadn’t been stopped. Moreover, he was quite sure he wouldn’t be making a reappearance the following day.

“That sounds wonderful, then. So, if you’re all set?”

Sherlock picked up his leaving cue, shouldered on and buttoned his jacket to hide his tented trousers, and bid his farewells.

\--

The moment the door closed, John unbuttoned his trousers and let out his cock. 

What a session. 

As his fingers pulled at his foreskin, he remembered Sherlock kneading his arse, pulling his cheeks apart as if to tease, pulling them this way and that… He stifled a moan and rubbed his finger along his frenulum. 

For a self-proclaimed virgin, he sure knew what he was doing. That was entirely more initiative than he was used to his client's showing, especially their first time participating in an activity.

Not to mention the body that he clearly cared for as well as any underwear model that side of the pond. 

All in all, he thought as he tugged at his prick, today had gone much better than it could’ve. At least he’d had the presence of mind to stop when he had. He'd been about thirty seconds from wanking on top of Sherlock, whether it was welcomed or not. They’d not even discussed any over-the-pants action for that day, and he didn’t want to introduce any activities before they’d discussed them soberly. 

God, but the man was astounding. That brain – knowing about Mary being unable to cope with his profession and leaving – even if he had gotten the gender wrong. And those piercing eyes that clearly saw everything. Asking about John’s life as though he were more than a faceless therapist.

He clenched his jaw and came with a grunt.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat stoically on the couch at 221B Baker Street, hands pressed together in front of his lips. He had no concept of time, no idea of how long he’d been there. The appointment may have already passed, for all he knew, which would mean he had nothing to worry about. He refused to glance at the clock to find out. After all, it didn’t matter either way.

His realization the day before had thrown him completely. Much more so than he had ever experienced in a case before. 

What was it that was bothering him? It wasn’t the murders, that much was certain. He had found himself almost forgetting there was a case to be solved at all at times.

A case would generally excite him. Baffle him. Intrigue him. In the worst instance, a case might frustrate him.

But none of those words matched the feeling currently tearing his chest apart. Separate from the usual control and self-discipline he would display during a case, this one had him feeling impulsive, affected, hopeful. Yet paralyzed.

It was uncommon, rare even, for him to feel uncertain to this degree. Especially concerning a case. He could normally immerse himself completely, play a role to perfection, and emerge the other side unaffected. 

Was it the sexual nature of the interactions? He was almost completely inexperienced with sex, but he had witnessed otherwise moderately intelligent and logical people fall victim to its lure. He had always considered himself above the nonsense, but perhaps it was because he’d never engaged in it before. But no, he refused to believe he was following the footsteps of the fools who had come before him.

Was it John specifically? At times, it did feel as though he had a connection to the other man, although there were multiple factors that could, and almost definitely were, influencing that. 

In another vein, he was considering going back just to abate his curiosity. While his case, and come to that, his uncharacteristic guilt over deceiving John, were important, there was a stronger niggling at his brain. Did he enjoy sex? It aroused some feelings in him that masturbation never had. It had always been perfunctory; something to do so that his nagging erection would go away. But with John, it felt different somehow. It didn't feel like he was using him simply as a masturbatory aid, the way he'd imagined sex between two people felt. He liked seeing him aroused. Enjoyed arousing him. 

Sensations aside, his experiences with John seemed to be valuable knowledge. His mind palace had a new suite devoted to their time together, which signaled to him that it must be important. A regular acquaintance was lucky to get a corner. Anderson had only half a shelf. 

These thoughts circled endlessly around the one question in Sherlock’s mind. 

Should he go back to see John?

Something between minutes and hours passed, and Sherlock gave in glanced at the clock.

15:35

The session was scheduled to begin in 25 minutes and the office was a half hour walk from Baker Street.

Body responding before his brain was able to engage, he quickly stood and whipped his coat around him.

He supposed this meant he was going.

\--

He arrived late. 

As far as timing went, he judged this to be a significant improvement on arriving early and having to witness Dennis lumber out of a door for which he otherwise held quite a positive association. 

John was there to greet him and let him into the room as soon as he arrived.

“How was your night?” the therapist asked, as they sat down together on a sofa.

The way John smiled at him suggested that he had no idea what sort of inner turmoil he was causing Sherlock, which, he supposed, was good.

“Didn’t sleep much,” he replied, as anything else would have been an obvious lie. He knew dark circles gave him away.

John’s eyebrows crumpled in a concerned frown.

“Something on your mind?”

“No, I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Well,” John placed a comforting hand on his knee, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sherlock looked down at the hand and back up at John, who smiled again. There was a noticeable silence between them before John slid his hand up Sherlock’s thigh, grin widening almost flirtatiously.

Sherlock asked, “Are we starting already?” with a quirked eyebrow. John normally took a little longer to greet him, though his body didn’t appear to mind the change of routine.

“Don’t see why I can’t touch you while we discuss today's session,” John said. “I know I’ve said this before, but you’re really doing very well with me. It’s quite uncommon. Five sessions in, and look at you,” he gestured to Sherlock’s body, making him take quick stock of himself.

He realized he was slouched lower on the couch than was acceptable in company, and his legs were spread almost indecently. Certainly wider than he’d have them normally.

After such a short exchange and a hand on his leg?

He swiftly sat up and readjusted but John’s hand stayed halfway up his thigh, and moved even slightly higher.

“No need to be embarrassed. I was pointing it out as a good thing. You’re comfortable. I spend weeks trying to get people to stop fidgeting or touch me back or look me in the eye. Are you like this with everyone?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but stopped. Everyone? Ignoring the fact that he didn’t touch a single person on a regular basis – apart from John, now – ‘everyone’ would basically include Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Lestrade. And no, he most certainly was not ‘like this with everyone’.

“If you mean self-assured, then yes. However, I lack experience of a sexual or romantic nature.”

John’s hand slid very nearly to the crotch of his trousers. 

“Yes, you’ve told me as much. I’m just not used to it. Never mind.” John’s hand slid back down to his knee and Sherlock’s body went lax in disappointment. He hadn’t even realized he was tense. 

“Since we didn’t end up getting naked yesterday,” John started, “I’d like to make that today’s priority. It’s generally the logical progression. Does that sound good so far?”

“So far?” he questioned.

“Sherlock. Answer me first. Does that sound good?” John was straightforward and serious. It was almost strange to see, now that John was so much more often teasing or sensual.

“Yes, okay.”

“Right. And do you think we could manage some more intimate touching?” His voice had softened and he spoke the words delicately.

Sherlock kept his face neutral as he said, “Perhaps.” Inside, his heart was pounding at the suggestion and he couldn’t tell if it was out of excitement or fear.

“It’s perfectly normal to be nervous,” John said, seeming to pick up on his physiological response. “Sex probably seems unnatural and frightening because you’ve been so long without it, but I promise it’s a lot easier than you think it is.” 

He smiled and ran his hand back up Sherlock’s inner thigh, this time, not stopping until he was resting over his crotch. 

Sherlock could have sworn his body temperature raised two degrees and he once again looked down at the hand then up at John. He hoped his eyes weren’t as wide as he guessed they were.

John leaned in for a kiss but stopped short and asked, “Okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed before their lips met somewhat more roughly than Sherlock had anticipated. He leaned back from the force before pushing forward again. It occurred to him that realizing John’s innocence had changed their interactions very little. He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought, as John’s hand pushed down firmly on his growing bulge, then snaked under his shirt to feel his lower abdomen and play with the sparse hair growing there.

Sherlock wasn’t able to suppress a moan in time and John make his own desperate noise in return. 

Their tongues slid together, hot and slippery, while John’s hands roamed his body, groping and stroking for several minutes. The first time they broke their kiss was to hoist John’s half unbuttoned shirt over his head, and then a couple minutes later, to remove Sherlock’s as well. 

Rather than straddling him as John had done the day before, Sherlock was startled when John separated their mouths, finishing with a tender kiss to the side of Sherlock’s lips, and lowered himself to the floor in front of him.

Sherlock swallowed thickly at the implications. John placed his hands on the fly of his trousers and looked him in the eye, asking for permission.

Sherlock nodded once, and let his head fall back on the sofa, not wanting to watch his humiliation.

He felt the hands slowly unbutton then unzip the trousers, and he raised his hips from the sofa as they were pulled down.

“Mind if I take off your shoes?”

He looked down at John, who was now kneeling very low to the ground, having just pulled Sherlock’s trousers to his knees. Sherlock’s pants-covered erection twitched at the provocative sight, and the movement drew John’s eyes. 

Rather than laughing or teasing as Sherlock might have expected, John just barely licked his lips and looked back, quite seriously, at his eyes.

“Go ahead,” he answered the hanging question.

John glanced down every so often but they largely maintained eye contact while he untied and slipped off the shoes. That finished, he fully removed the trousers and set them aside.

John raised himself off his knees and unzipped his own trousers, letting them fall to the floor with little ceremony. 

Sherlock tensed as the other man then beckoned him to stand beside him and grabbed on to him the second they were near enough.

They had never been this close while standing before, and he noticed that he was a fair bit taller than John. Strange that he hadn't noticed previously - the therapists confidence and ease of movement made him seem taller. As John pulled them together, he felt their hips align almost perfectly and decided the height difference must mainly be in their torsos. 

Sherlock went to great pains to keep his hips from touching John’s – all too aware of the straining erection underneath his designer pants. 

Their bodies hovered very near each other’s, swaying off balance at times, and skimming. Every touch seemed to light Sherlock’s skin on fire. 

It wasn’t long before Sherlock was grasping at John’s ribcage, hands digging in to the broad muscle. His erection was throbbing and he was desperately trying to keep John from feeling it. Of course, the man already knew he was hard, but he hardly needed a reminder of his effect on Sherlock.

“God, Sherlock,” John broke off the kiss and buried his head in the meeting of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, alternately kissing and nipping at the skin. “Could I…” 

His hands gripped the detective’s gluteal muscles and squeezed hard. Sherlock suddenly understood why the man had enjoyed his actions so much the previous day, as he involuntarily thrust forward, and their erections made contact. A solid pressure on his needy cock. 

The pleasure hit Sherlock so hard that his knees weakened. He caught himself before they collapsed and John still had a firm grasp of his arse to hold him steady. 

They looked at each other and Sherlock saw plain desire in John’s eyes. He was clearly an impressive professional to be able to maintain this level of arousal with a client.

“You feel so good, Sherlock. It’s okay to like this,” John said, licking his lips. He held still and let Sherlock instinctively grind their cocks together in a slight thrusting motion. “Fuck. What you’re doing feels amazing.” A moan and then a kiss.

“Fuck,” John repeated, panting, and stilled Sherlock’s hips, “Take your pants off. I’ll do mine at the same time, okay?”

Most of Sherlock’s brain had ceased caring about anything but his cock, so when a tiny bit in the front still suggested he be embarrassed about this, he ignored it.

They pulled apart and both stripped their pants, stepping out of them before John stepped back, close to Sherlock. A relief. He had hardly had time to worry that his cock would be examined closely or found immediately wanting.

Their proximity once again brought their cocks together, though this time, it was hot skin against hot skin. Somehow, impossibly, better. Their faces were centimeters apart and they shared each breath. He was just getting used to feeling flesh against his most intimate area, and was pleased for the break in activity. He wasn’t sure he’d have the focus for kissing at the moment.

Then, John spoke.

“I would very much like to touch you. Would that be alright?”

“Er,” Sherlock heard his own voice waver but didn’t have the focus to spare on embarrassment. “Yes,” he said, then paused. “Yes.”

John grinned, their lips almost touching, and looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Thank you.”

John’s hand reached down and cupped his erection, ever so gently. It was, in equal parts, a shock and a tease. 

“Harder,” Sherlock growled, and John moaned, following directions and gripping him more firmly. When John’s hand started to move, Sherlock gasped and clutched tightly at John’s short hair. He initiated a kiss, and felt John’s hand speed up. Sherlock knew there was no conceivable way he would be able to prevent an orgasm at this stage, and felt his hips involuntarily thrust into John’s hands, and against their stomachs.

He was vaguely aware of John panting and grinding his own erection onto Sherlock’s hip, but was unable to grasp any details.

“God, John,” he gasped in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck,” John answered, eyes wide “You’re so bloody beautiful.” 

He felt John’s other arm curl around his lower back and press them together at the hips. The pressure increased and he felt his balls draw up and his cock harden and twitch. 

He let out a vulgar moan as heat seemed to spread along his limbs and tingles reached every surface of his body. He felt at once light headed and as though he could move mountains. One more thrust and he came all over their stomachs.

Once he had finished spurting and twitching, John released him and grabbed both his hips, head falling to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, and thrust animalistically into the dip by his hipbone. 

Not ten seconds later, while Sherlock was still recovering from the roaring in his ears, John’s body tensed and he bit down hard, moaning, on Sherlock’s shoulder as he came. 

Sherlock felt ribbons of ejaculate land on his lower belly and still softening cock.

They stood still for a few moments, and then John said, “I need to sit down.”

As he collapsed on the sofa, Sherlock felt an enormous wave of guilt flood him. 

Even as his body was relaxed and being flooded with oxytocin, his mind was racing and wouldn’t quiet upon command. This couldn’t carry on. This was a blatant disrespect of the therapist, who Sherlock found he was actually growing to like. Not only was he betraying John’s trust, but he was impeding an investigation. Lestrade should already have been in today to question John, and they could be out looking for their murderer.

He took one last, long look at John’s relaxed, and happy face. He was smiling at him, eyes soft and questioning, as though he wanted to once again ask if Sherlock was okay.

“I have to confess something,” Sherlock said.

“What’s that?” John still had a dopey look on his face, but now his forehead was wrinkling in concern.

“I may not have been entirely honest with you.”

John paused and searched his face, “… About what?”

“My reason for being here, I suppose. I, ah,” he looked down, unused to the level of guilt he was experiencing. “I’m a consulting detective with the Met. And I’m on a case. The specifics of which involve you, somehow.”

“… A case? What do you mean? So you’re – “ He broke off, looking baffled.

“Several of your past clients have been murdered, and I suspected you were involved. I have, of course, since ascertained that you are not my suspect.”

John looked stunned. “So you’re not here for therapy? You… you’ve been assessing me this entire time?”

“Er,” Sherlock hesitated, understanding the implications of the question. “I did not come here for therapy, no.”

“That’s… Jesus, Sherlock." He stopped as though something had occurred to him. "Still Sherlock, is it?”

He nodded in reply, staring resolutely at the wall behind John.

“Christ.” John stood up to pace, all signs of an intense orgasm having faded. He turned back to Sherlock and said, very crossly, “Were you lying about everything, then? Are you really that good an actor?”

“No. I wasn’t lying about… Well, I’m not a violin teacher, obviously. Though I do play. Otherwise, I haven’t lied. My circumstances for booking sessions with you were dishonest, though for the sake of saving lives might I add, but everything else I told you was true.”

“So, all this…” John visibly fumbled about for the word, “progression. All this… what we’ve been doing. You weren’t having me on? Acting nervous but really taking the piss? Going home and having a right old laugh with your mates?” His tone had turned mocking and angry.

“No.” Sherlock finally met his eyes.

\--

On the one hand, John felt utterly betrayed. Sherlock had been lying this entire time. He said the rest of it was true, but his entire reason for being there was a lie, and John felt like he’d gotten a fist to the gut. 

On the other hand, he could recognize what an irrational, emotional response that was. He knew that his anger and embarrassment was only because he had developed un-therapist-like feelings for Sherlock. That much was obvious. If he’d felt nothing other than this betrayal, he would’ve known.

His reaction was over the top, and he knew he had to temper it. He forced himself to take a deep breath and relax his tense shoulders.

On the bright side, Sherlock wasn’t one of his clients. Never really had been. That went some way to allaying the guilt over his attraction. And, he thought almost humourously, it meant he didn’t have to panic about how unprofessional today’s session had turned out.

There had been a long silence while John thought. Sherlock had clearly cleaned himself up somewhat and was stood up, rebuttoning his shirt.

“A detective from the Met will be interviewing you later tonight or tomorrow. I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention… me.” Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

“Sure,” John replied, his voice thin but civil.

“Thank you,” he said, and finished tying his shoes. “I…” he paused, “I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I’m not used to such kindness, even when it’s paid for.” He gave a tight smile and, before John could think of what to say, he walked out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

John stared numbly at the closed door. 

He ran Sherlock’s parting words over and over in his head, and finally felt his mind react.

Not used to kindness? Suddenly, much of his behaviour made more sense. He was confident, but it sometimes seemed false. He was quick to jump from confidence to uncertainty. He was reluctant to let John see him vulnerable. 

A man who was not used to kindness.

John felt his heart swell in his chest. That man had started to let John in. He'd felt it over the past couple sessions, Sherlock's cool exterior starting to crack.It was part of his job detecting these changes and using them to his client's advantage, but with Sherlock, he just felt fortunate.

He sat on the sofa and held his head in his hands. Time passed meaninglessly as he ran over and over his interactions with Sherlock. 

It had occurred to him from the start that this particular client had seemed ‘off’ somehow; different than most of the others. But he wouldn’t pretend he had seen this revelation coming. 

He sat for a long time – Freda popped in to say goodnight and he told her to leave the building unlocked. Apparently he was expecting a detective. 

\--

The closing of a door echoed through 221 Baker Street and Lestrade’s footsteps could be heard trudging up the 14 steps to flat B. 

The greying inspector entered more jovially than Sherlock might have expected, given his unsolved case.

“Well,” he said with a smirk, “That was an interesting interview.”

Sherlock immediately tensed. Could Lestrade’s tone mean that John hadn’t kept his word? That he’d told the inspector about…

“How so?” He drawled, carefully keeping his face blank.

“Well, it’s not every day you meet a sex therapist, is it?” he said, and sat down across from Sherlock on the unused armchair.

“Sexual surrogate,” he corrected.

“What?” 

“He’s not a sex therapist. They are clinical psychologists who simply speak to their clients about sex. He is a sexual surrogate.”

“Right, yeah,” Lestrade waved a hand dismissively, still a hint of a smirk, as though he found the profession very amusing indeed. “Has sex with virgins for a living, doesn’t he? Legally. Very interesting man, I’ll give him that.”

“Did he have any information?” Sherlock asked, holding himself back from correcting the inspector on the specifics of John’s profession. It had only been a few hours since he’d left the office – Lestrade must have responded to his call straight away – but he was eager to know what had happened in his absence.

“Actually, he did. Very good.” Lestrade settled in and pulled out his notepad, glancing at it. “Turns out, he’s had a couple clients harass him after the fact. Fancy themselves in love with him. Suppose every job has its risks, eh?”

As though Sherlock had needed further reason to berate himself for the confusion he felt in regards to Dr. Watson. Clients falling in love with him? Harassing him? After all, they were all just clients. John probably dealt with half a dozen people a day, in exactly the same manner as he dealt with Sherlock. It was obviously foolish to consider anything else. As he’d known before he had returned for another session.

Sherlock blinked slowly and took a deep breath in an effort to clear his mind.

“You have their information, I presume?” Lestrade nodded, and Sherlock continued, “How many? Harass him in what manner?”

“He gave me three names to look into. All clients within the past two years. He said any further back than that, they haven’t contacted him recently. They’re some creeps, though. They send him letters, pictures of his house, they call the office weekly trying to set appointments…”

“Motive is jealousy, then. Killing current or recent clients because they’ve slept with the man they’re in love with,” Sherlock said. It immediately occurred to him that he was a potential victim. Use himself as bait? How, without alerting the Yard? He would need backup. He didn’t know what or who he was dealing with. 

“Seems like. Christ, poor bloke. He seemed quite shaken up about the whole situation. Said he’s taking the rest of the week off, not that I blame him.”

“He said that?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself. He loathed repetition.

“Yep. So listen, come by the Yard tomorrow to look over the file.” He stood up and paused. “You alright? You look a little out of it.” His tone was serious and concerned.

“Fine.” Sherlock had been asked if he was alright more times in the past week than previously in the past year.

“Yeah, good,” Lestrade said, not looking convinced. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, eh?”

“Tomorrow.”

And the man was gone.

\--

The following day found Sherlock fiddling with his phone. He’d already been down to the Yard and he was armed with the names and physical descriptions of the suspects. His plan, however, relied heavily on the participation of one John Watson.

He’d also been able to take down the man’s mobile number while perusing the file, and he knew that he was just one call away. He was hesitant for a more than one reason. Firstly, found he couldn’t predict whether the man would agree to help him at all. If he was absolutely frank with himself, he had to admit that he didn’t know the man. He knew facts about his life, but he found him difficult to predict, and additionally, had gathered his information from a man acting as a therapist – not behaving naturally.

His second hesitation, which he was finding difficulty in coming to terms with, was that he didn’t want to interact with John in a non-therapy environment. He didn’t want the seemingly positive memories tarnished with reality.

It would be a prime night to show up at the clubs, though. Thursdays were just about as busy a night as they came, and two of the five murders had occurred on a Thursday. Not a pattern yet, but hopefully one would form that very night.

Sherlock emitted a sound of frustration and paced the already worn floor of 221B. He’d turned the idea round in his head and he simply could not come up with a way of catching the killer without either putting himself in mortal danger, or involving John. 

He swiped his phone on and stared at the number, taunting him, daring him.

He touched the green icon and held the phone to his ear.

“Dr. Watson.” Revert to formalities to distance oneself. “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

\--

Sherlock deliberately did not tug on his tight purple shirt as it rode up between his back and the brick wall. He noticed the appreciative glances from the queued club goers and pressed his lips together in satisfaction. He would need to draw all possible attention tonight in case their suspect was in the club. The more people looking at him, the more likely the murderer was to notice him.

John was thirteen minutes late.

He wasn’t coming, a voice whispered in his head. But no, give him time. The club was a difficult one to find.

Several pairs of eyes met his own and he let his lips quirk in a seductive smirk. One hand lifted the front of his own shirt to rub at the trail of hair leading into his tight trousers. Eyes lowered to follow.

Where was John? This would be a colossal waste of time if the man didn’t show. He had sounded agreeable enough, if surprised, over the phone.

Just as his watch was telling him the therapist was now seventeen minutes late, the man himself showed up, completely out of breath.

Sherlock didn’t move. Barely glanced at him.

“Sherlock! Hi! Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late, I got completely turned around outside the tube station. I never could get Old Street station right, you know?”

“I don’t.” He wouldn’t mention the taxi that had dropped him off meters from the club. “Are you ready?” He looked at the man properly and saw that he had at least tried to follow his directions. 

He wore a clearly out of date black t-shirt that was tighter than anything Sherlock imagined he wore on a regular basis, and jeans that could have fit him more snugly. Sherlock wondered distantly whether the man would still look attractive in a canvas bag.

“Well, I tried. Been years since I’ve been out to the clubs, though. You look… like you’re better at this than I am.” John looked appreciatively down the length of Sherlock’s body with the start of a smile.

Not knowing how to respond to the seemingly flirtatious comment, Sherlock stood up properly from the wall and guided John towards the door. Keep them moving, don't make small talk.

“As you were late, we should get going. I’ll be going in first. You follow after several minutes and remain as inconspicuous as possible. Do not go to the bar, do not take a seat, stand on the edges of the club and observe. If you see someone you recognize, text me and I’ll feel the vibration. Two texts in a row if you want to meet in the toilet. Got it?”

John blinked against the fast pace of the instructions but hardened his face and nodded. “Got it.”

Ten minutes later, they were in place. 

Sherlock leant against the bar and tried to hood his eyes seductively while simultaneously fending off advances. He knew John was across the room from him, but only glanced over every so often. No need to draw the possible murderer’s eye to the therapist he would, if Sherlock was correct, recognize. 

He ordered tonic after tonic to create the impression of alcohol consumption, and loosened his behaviour and stance accordingly. Best to have people thinking he was off his guard. 

Just as he was about to take a toilet break, he felt his mobile vibrate in his back pocket. He managed to school his expression but he felt his body tense slightly. John recognized somebody who he obviously considered to be a possible suspect. Sherlock deliberately relaxed his body and leant further back, letting his head roll slightly. Create the illusion of deep inebriation. 

Not thirty seconds later, a hand touched his arm gently, and he turned.

Sherlock was shocked to see a man who he himself recognized.

The balding head covered only in fly-aways, the protruding and rotund stomach encased in a too tight button down.

“Dennis.”

The man smiled in a way he probably considered to be coy. 

“Dr. Watson’s office, right? I never did catch your name.” His left hand continued to rest on Sherlock’s arm and he proffered his right to shake hands. Sherlock took it reluctantly. 

“Sherlock,” he said, finally returning the smile, drunkenly.

“I didn’t expect to meet anybody else from Watson’s place here. Thought we were mostly a shy bunch, I suppose. I was actually here hoping to find someone to practice on. If you know what I mean.” The man winked and slid his hand up to Sherlock’s shoulder.

He repressed a shudder, though only just. If this was the pulling technique Dennis was using, it was no wonder they’d found the murdered men with excessive levels of blood-alcohol. He wouldn’t have had any success with a sober man.

Dennis turned to the bar to catch the bartender’s attention and Sherlock glanced up at John, only to find him turned to one side, clearly on the phone.

Sherlock frowned before he caught himself. Was John taking a social call during a case? A work call? Did he even get work calls? Was he calling Lestrade?

He tore his eyes away as he felt Dennis turning back to him with two fresh, and actually alcoholic, drinks.

“What was that you were saying about practice?” Sherlock asked, pouting his lips obviously, to appear as though he was drunkenly flirting.

Dennis’ face lit up in surprise and excitement. Sherlock was playing right into his hands, and the man was clearly thrilled.

“I… Do you want to…” Dennis gestured widely to one wall, and Sherlock scanned it before seeing the door, presumably to the outside. 

His nostrils flared, knowing he was about to get an answer to the case either way.

“Let’s.” He grabbed Dennis’ hand and allowed himself to be pulled towards the door. He glanced around for John but couldn’t find him between the throngs of people from this new angle. 

The second they were outside, Sherlock found himself thrown against the brick wall of the club with Dennis quickly advancing for a kiss. They were in a dark alleyway, rubbish bins littering the pavement, and a single light fixture; the same one where two men’s bodies had been found within the past month. 

Hot breath brushed his skin before the man’s cracked, dry lips touched his own. His nose crinkled in instinctive disgust but he held still and let Dennis paw at his torso while apparently trying to suck his top lip off his face.

“How does this feel, hey? Do you like this?”

A rather large part of Sherlock was eager for the man to attempt to murder him.

He let a noncommittal sound out of his throat.

“Does it feel good when I touch you like this?” The hands moved to his arse. It was remarkable, and worthy of further inspection, how different this felt from when John did it. If he could have thrown the man off with no consequences, he would have in a heartbeat.

“Does John touch you like this?”

His breath caught in his throat. Here, they were getting somewhere.

“Does John touch you, and kiss you? Do you touch him back? Has he touched your cock?” His voice was losing the presumably seductive edge and becoming aggressive.

Suddenly the teeth nibbling at his lips clamped down and the hands gripped his skin painfully.

“Has he fucked you yet?” Dennis growled from between clenched teeth.

Sherlock struggled for all of a second before Dennis flew inexplicably to the side, a soft thump echoing in the alleyway as he landed on his knees. A knife that Sherlock hadn't known about flew out of his hands, and he kicked it away.

John was in his line of vision, massaging his clenched fist.

They stared at each other for a moment, and John uttered, “What the fuck?” before Dennis leapt up from the floor and jumped towards Sherlock, hands grabbing. 

John kneed him in the stomach before he got close, and used both elbows knock his doubled over body to the ground.

Dennis managed to grab at John’s ankle to trip him to the ground, and began crawling towards him.

“John,” he wheezed, “John, you don’t understand. Come here.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” John scurried to stand, and they tussled briefly before he got the upper hand.

“No, John. I love you. I’m doing this for you. So we can be together, just us.”

Dennis had finally been restrained, lying on his stomach, John sitting on his back, holding his arms behind him.

Sherlock, stunned at John’s quick reactions, though he shouldn’t have been considering his army past, finally dug into his trouser pocket for his phone.

“I’ll just be ringing Lestrade, then.”

“No need,” John replied from on top of his ex-client, “He should be here any minute.”

Dennis put up another good fight when the police arrived several minutes later but they got him packed away in short order. John and Sherlock were both offered paramedic assistance, but both refused, John with a scoff.

“So,” John said, once they were free to leave and walking towards the main road together, “Is your job always this exciting?” His eyes were bright as he glanced at Sherlock, and his smile was blinding.

The detective couldn’t help but smile back, adrenaline still running high. “Not always. Not usually lucky enough to get a serial killer.”

John laughed and turned towards him, stopping in the middle of the pavement.

“People are always telling me my job is exciting. I think I’d choose yours over mine any day.” John’s smile was infectious but Sherlock reminded himself that it was just the adrenaline. He didn’t want to embarrass himself now, and regret it once his mind had cleared.

“Yes, well. I suppose you don’t have to worry about helping me anymore. The case is wrapped. Lestrade will want a statement but you can go in tomorrow for that. Thank you for your help.” Sherlock turned and began searching the streets for a taxi.

“You’re leaving?” He sounded disappointed, though Sherlock couldn’t fathom why.

“The case is wrapped,” he repeated.

“Do you want to go for a drink?” He took a step into Sherlock’s personal space.

“I’m not your client anymore. You don’t have to spend time with me. I suggest you take advantage of that fact,” Sherlock answered stiffly.

“You’re not a client anymore? Never really were, were you?” He stepped closer and tugged at the collar to Sherlock’s shirt. His face tilted up. “What if I want to spend time with you?”

Sherlock stared back at John’s open face and saw both insecurity and eagerness.

“Why?” The word accurately summed up all of Sherlock’s questions.

John laughed, “Why? Let’s see, you’re clever, absolutely brilliant, you’re brave, hilarious, sexy as fuck… What do you think?” The adrenaline was clearly still pumping. Sherlock had never seen the spark that was in John's eye before. 

What did he think? John’s proximity was, as always, limiting his ability to think. He could feel his breath on his cheek, so different from Dennis’. See the freckles on his nose that would go unnoticed at a greater distance.

“What do you want?” he asked John.

“I think... if you want, I think I want to go home with you.” His eyes rested on Sherlock’s lips and he licked them, then saw John swallow heavily.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million apologies for the lack of smut. Next chapter should make up for it shamelessly. 
> 
> So that was a break from the typical format of sessions, and I actually miss them. I'm probably going to end up writing a couple chapters about what would've happened if they had just kept having sessions (and I hadn't had a plot to attend to). Let me know if you'd be interested in reading them, or if they would ruin it for you! I'd probably post them as a 'sequel' to this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out! My life has been a little bit intense lately. Enjoy :)

The door to 221B clicked closed behind Sherlock and he turned to face John. The man’s face was crumpled up, deep lines running across his forehead.

The taxi ride had been subdued, Sherlock aware of his nervously bouncing knee, and John’s clenched hands as they both stared out the window. Why John would be nervous, he didn’t know. 

“Sherlock…” said John.

“Yes?”

“Are you… sure about this?” John looked desperately guilty. Sherlock wondered at himself for not noticing what had surely been a slow build to this point. 

“Why are you anxious?” he asked, rather than answering the question.

John’s eyes darted to the upper corner of the room and he inhaled deeply.

“I’m not sure if…” He stopped and his eyes moved about the walls aimlessly. “I mean, you were my client, Sherlock.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at John, trying to understand. Yes, he’d been his client. That was rather the point, wasn’t it? John wouldn’t even be here if he didn’t feel he owed Sherlock something, if he didn’t feel obligated to finish his therapy, so where was the guilt originating?

“Yes.”

“Do you see where I might have some… ethical boundaries? That would… prohibit certain behaviours?”

“No.” 

People were normally so easy to read. So why couldn’t he read John? 

“Oh for – “ John exclaimed and turned around, hands raking through his short hair. “I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” he said, turning to look Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock blinked. “How could you possibly? We are both aware of the entirety of the situation.”

“I was in a position of power over you! I… I was your therapist, you confided in me, you trusted me to treat you with respect and look at us now. I practically begged you to take me home with you.” John exhaled and turned around again, breaking eye contact. 

Sherlock frowned. “I am willing to accommodate you. I understand if you have a drive to complete your task. I find myself doing the same with an unfinished case.”

John froze.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, I understand if you – “

“Shut up,” John said, and immediately continued, “A 'drive to complete my task’? What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“You clearly want to finish my therapy out of some sense of duty or need for completion. That’s acceptable to me, as you very much helped me with my case.”

John stared at him in what seemed to be horror. He slowly closed his eyes and furrowed his brow.

“Oh God, Sherlock. No. That’s not it at all. I,” John swallowed roughly before continuing, “I’m attracted to you. Very attracted to you. Have been for a while. Much too long, to be honest.”

Sherlock’s stomach clenched and he could feel his face heating.

"What?"

"Sherlock, come on. You're brilliant, you must know this."

“You’re attracted to me?” His voice sounded vulnerable even to his own ears.

“Christ,” John laughed weakly, “I hope you don’t think I carry on like that with all my clients.”

“You don’t?” he asked, brain still stalled.

“Sherlock,” John asked, voice suddenly soft, “Can I kiss you? Not because I’m your therapist and you’re my client, but because I want to? And, I hope, because you want me to?” 

He was much closer than when he’d begun speaking and Sherlock felt himself nodding before John wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down slightly.

Their lips met gently and tentatively. Both mouths inhaled at the first touch and John increased his grip on his neck, pulling him down further. When their mouths met properly, John opened his mouth and sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip.

Sherlock moaned involuntarily and felt his cock twitch at the suction.

“John,” he croaked, before thinking.

The man broke away from him quickly and responded, “Mm? Yeah?”, his eyes half-lidded but soon opening in concern.

He took in John’s appearance and worried yet aroused facial expression, and understood in a flash that John wasn’t lying about being attracted to him. This sexually skilled and capable man was willing. Eager, even.

“Nothing. Carry on,” Sherlock said, awkwardly gesturing him closer without touching him.

A smile bloomed on John’s face and he spoke from deep in his throat, “Hm, thank you very much.”

He kissed him again and backed him against the door to the flat. John pressed in closer and their chests were soon pushed tightly together. Sherlock wasn’t certain but he imagined he could feel the fast beating of John’s heart against his. 

His cock was taking a quick interest in the proceedings, remembering the last time he’d kissed John and the marvels that had followed. Acting on instinct and desire, he brought his hands to John’s hips and pulled them against his own, their erections bumping and grinding against each other.

John gasped and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, sucking flesh from just above his collarbone.

“What – “ John started, releasing the skin before teething at it, “What do you want? What can I do?”

What could he do? Everything, as far as Sherlock was concerned. He would allow John to do things that Sherlock probably wasn’t even aware existed as of yet.

“You can do what you like. I’m not your client anymore, right?”

John swallowed audibly.

“You’re certainly not. Can we go to your bedroom?”

They walked to the bedroom, slowly at first but faster once John knew where they were going and led the way.

The kissed, still standing, and John tugged Sherlock’s shirt up, rolling it past his pectorals and encouraging his arms above his head so he could remove it entirely. They went back in for another kiss before they broke apart again as John removed his own shirt with little ceremony.

John’s hands reached his shoulders and pushed him back slightly.

“Lie down.”

Sherlock complied with enthusiasm, climbing onto the bed and resting on his back with his knees raised and parted slightly.

John stood before the bed for a moment, an obscene image with his slightly ill fitting jeans tenting dramatically at the zip, and chest flushed up to his cheeks.

“God, Sherlock. I wish you could see yourself. You have no idea how…” he trailed off, and unzipped his jeans, letting them drop to the floor. His boxer briefs were wet at the front and the outline of his cock against the grey cotton was positively indecent. Sherlock licked his lips and felt his own erection pulse.

Not one to waste time, John climbed onto the bed and, shortly thereafter, onto Sherlock. One knee between Sherlocks’, chests pressed tightly together thanks to John’s weight, and groins meeting each other’s hips.

It was the first time Sherlock had felt the bodyweight of another person so firmly against his and he couldn’t help but arch into the sensation. 

In that position, they kissed for several minutes, moving from nearly chaste closed mouthed kisses to, in the end, tongues gliding slickly together, mouths barely closing for a moment. The heat kept growing between them, and their speeding breaths had nothing to do with exertion, as far as Sherlock could tell, lying nearly still as he was.

John bit at Sherlock’s lip, harder than he had previously, and a shockwave flew through him, hips pumping once against John’s hip. John paused and seemed to deliberate before biting Sherlock's lip again, even harder. Sherlock moaned and ground his hips upwards.

“Oh,” he said in surprise, as John pulled back to look him in the eye.

“Oh, indeed,” John said, a wicked glint in his eye.

At that, the blond man shifted down slightly and more or less attached himself to Sherlock’s neck with his teeth. He moved a couple of centimeters at a time, nibbling, before he found a place that made Sherlock arch, and bit down harder.

Sherlock cried out and cupped John’s head to his neck, not allowing him to leave. He’d never had the slightest inkling that another person biting his neck might feel this way.

Every slight increase in the pressure of the bite made Sherlock cry out louder, until his vision began whiting out with pleasure. John released him and moved ever so slightly to the left before biting again, and Sherlock rubbed his aching cock against his hip. 

Just a few more thrusts and he could almost…

John pulled away, releasing his neck.

“Christ,” John gasped, staring at him with wonder. “Do you have any other secrets up your sleeve? If there’s any way you could get sexier, it’s only fair you warn me now.”

Sherlock looked back, dazed. John’s hair was a complete mess, and his lips were red, glistening with saliva.

“I… didn’t know that was so good,” Sherlock said, speaking slowly and as clearly as he could.

“I suppose,” John shifted backwards, down his body, kissing a nipple, “you couldn’t tell me,” kissing his rib cage, “something you didn’t know,” kissing his belly button. “Should we find out what else you like?”

He hovered just above Sherlock’s tented trousers. Sherlock watched John’s lips forming words in close proximity to his cock and simultaneously felt it grow harder and himself grow light-headed.

“Yes, please,” he croaked.

Without waiting for further permission, John deftly unbuttoned the trousers and shimmied them down Sherlock’s hips and down his legs, tossing them off the end of the bed.

Back in position over his cock, John met his eyes and covered the pants-covered flesh in his hand, his other cupping his testicles from underneath. The sudden dry, warm heat of his hands through cotton felt at once comforting and unbearably arousing. 

“John,” he breathed, “Fuck, please.”

The other man lowered his head to Sherlock’s crotch and nuzzled into the fabric, inhaling deeply at the base of his cock. Sherlock’s head spun and his cock twitched once more. He spread his legs wider in invitation.

“Can I take these off?” John asked, looking up at him through his lashes, most of his face still pressed against him.

Instead of answering, Sherlock waved John away and tore the pants off himself, settling quickly back down to the same position, hopeful and keen to continue from where they’d left off.

John looked at though he wanted to chuckle but couldn’t be bothered. 

Thankfully, he settled himself back down to the same position, and slid a hand up and down Sherlock’s erection. Skin on skin felt just as good as he’d remembered, and he had to steel himself against thrusting up. John's hand dragged his foreskin down with every pull, and his thumb rubbed at the exposed head before coming back up, pulling hard enough to pucker the loose skin around the tip of his cock.

John had hardly been at it a minute when he licked his lips and glanced down at his moving hand, and back up at Sherlock. He lowered his head and, without pausing his hand motions, kissed the skin between Sherlock’s belly button and cock. 

Sherlock felt his stomach draw tight in shock and anticipation of having John’s mouth Right. There. Would he…?

Thankfully, he didn’t need to wait long to find out, as John kissed closer and closer to where his hand was stroking the rigid flesh. Another glance up at Sherlock, then John was doing the unthinkable and resting his tongue against his nerve-ridden frenulum, and wiggling it. The sensation was almost sharp in it’s ecstasy and Sherlock writhed beneath him.

When John took the whole head of his cock into his mouth, he let out a strangled sigh and gripped the bed sheets.

John didn’t move his mouth very much except to swallow and suck and wriggle his tongue, and his hand firmly caressed the shaft, making for too much information. Sherlock allowed himself to close his eyes and enjoy the shocks coursing up and down his body.

As though John thought he could possibly deal with any more stimulation, Sherlock felt his other hand creep slowly down past his balls, to his perineum. John pressed his knuckle firmly up into the skin to stimulate his prostate and Sherlock jerked. He twisted the knuckle around, finding the best angle, and pressed again firmly, coordinating beautifully with a suck of his cock.

All too soon, John moved down past the perineum to his tight hole and pressed a flat fingertip against it. It contracted involuntarily but the feeling of pressure had Sherlock pushing back against the finger for more. John rubbed it for several seconds before it relaxed under the finger and let it slip in ever so slightly. 

John withdrew it, removed his mouth from Sherlock’s cock, and said, “Lube.”

Without a second’s hesitation, Sherlock lunged to the bedside table and fumbled into the drawer. He nearly threw the half empty tube at John and settled back down. This time, John did chuckle.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said firmly, “Hurry.”

A fond smirk on John’s face, he uncapped the tube and slicked his fingers. He descended on Sherlock’s cock once more and took him slightly further into his mouth. The fingers wasted no time in sliding back to the loosened hole, where John pressed one in slowly.

Sherlock had done this to himself before but the feeling of a foreign finger was decidedly weirder. And better.

Pairing the penetration with getting his cock sucked was evidently a good idea. The sensation that had previously been strange was now amplifying an already incredible feeling of pleasure.

John withdrew the one finger and pushed two in at a devastatingly slow pace.

Sherlock threw his head back against the bed in both frustration and pleasure. John was going so slowly and being so thorough that he could barely stand it. Of course, he was used to therapy, where he had to go slowly and the clients were nervous. Sherlock had been assured that he wasn’t a client. And he was definitely not nervous.

“You say I’m not your client? Stop treating me like one and fuck me already.”

John’s hips flexed visibly into the bed as he processed the command.

“Sherlock, do you think, for one minute, that I do this with clients?” Beneath the deep growl of arousal, Sherlock detected a measure of amusement. 

“I can see that you might, yes,” he panted.

John barked a laugh, “I suppose that’s understandable, given your experience with me. But let me tell you a secret. I’ve never treated you like a client. Not since the moment I first touched you. I wouldn’t do this to a client,” he sucked the head of Sherlock’s cock back into his mouth and swirled his tongue around the frenulum, “I wouldn’t do this,” he crooked his fingers and brushed against his prostate, while pressing his thumb into the perineum to caress it from the outside as well. “I most certainly would not tell a client how sexy they were. How much I wanted them. How they made my cock so hard I couldn’t even think around them.”

Sherlock cried out and his abdominals tensed, desperate to believe the words, but John clamped his hand around the base of his cock, preventing him from coming. Sherlock cried out again, this time in frustration, and threw his head against the bed.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” John asked, voice almost unrecognizably deep.

“Yes,” Sherlock moaned desperately, out of breath.

John got off the bed, removed his pants, and hurriedly rooted around in his jeans pocket, and came back with a condom.

He resumed his position between Sherlock’s now splayed legs and rolled the condom on quickly. He reached for the lube and slathered it on generously.

“It won’t be comfortable at first,” he warned, gripping his latex covered erection in one hand.

“I know. I’ve… tried it. On my own.” Cock too hard to be embarrassed.

John closed his eyes and took a steady breath, but Sherlock saw his hand tighten on his twitching erection.

“Good to know. Very good to know.”

He slowly guided himself until the tip was just entering Sherlock, and paused.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t like it.” It sounded much more like a command than Sherlock would have expected under the circumstances.

“I will,” he answered honestly.

He began to push in and the stretch could not be described as painful but it certainly wasn’t pleasurable. Sherlock was familiar with this, though, and knew the pleasure was hot on the tails of this too-full feeling. When John was inside him fully, the man laid most of his weight on Sherlock, and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, breathing heavily.

Sure enough, not a minute after John was fully seated, Sherlock’s muscles contracted in confused pleasure, and he found himself needed friction.

“Move. Please. Move,” he breathed into John’s ear.

John moaned and pumped his hips slowly, sinking in as far as he could before pulling back a couple inches. Sherlock grasped John’s arse and pulled him in, trying to get him further, closer. 

Once they had a rhythm going, Sherlock presented his lips for John, asking for a kiss. They latched on to each other, mouths open more in gasps than in kisses, but meeting over and over again all the same.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to feel his approaching climax, over stimulated as he had been.

“John,” he gasped, breath leaving his body with every one of John’s now enthusiastic thrusts. “God, John, I’m – “

“Yes,” John said. He lowered himself to Sherlock’s neck and bit hard.

Sherlock was dead silent except for a high whimper that escaped his throat as his head tilted back limply. His hips jerked spastically upwards, cock spurting strand after strand of come onto his and John’s stomachs.

Soon after, John thrust hard into the pulsing hole and pushed himself inside as deep as he could before coming inside the warm, slick body, gasping, “Fuck, Sherlock.”

They laid in relative silence, panting against each other’s hair as their bodies relaxed.

\--

John couldn't believe it. Could not believe the evening he'd had. Out at the club with Sherlock, disarmed a murderer - Dennis was a murderer, confessed his feelings for Sherlock. Been allowed to have Sherlock in his own bed.

He looked at the other man, curly hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, cheeks red and eyes glazed with pleasure. Not because he was paying for it, but because he'd accepted it from John. 

Just as their breathing was evening out, Sherlock’s mobile dinged. He reached for it blindly, almost knocking it off the table before grabbing it. He read the message in silence before turning to John, a terrifying look in his eye and a smile on his face.

“It’s Lestrade. There’s been a murder.”

John was taken aback. 

“Oh. That’s terrible. What happened?”

“They don’t know. I’m meant to figure it out.” His smile faded slightly and his face was guarded. “Do you want to come?”

John’s heart started to beat faster.

“Er… I don’t know. Would I be allowed?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock waved off the concern. “But it could be dangerous.” He cocked an eyebrow in a challenge.

Before John could think, a reflexive smile widened his face.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be frank, I got a bit carried away with the porn there. All this made me want to do was write a follow up with Sherlock learning how to touch John. Cause, you know, this was a lot of John-touching but not a lot of Sherlock-touching at the end...


End file.
